poems

29 October 2015

I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.

Nor had I time to love; but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me.

—E.D.

18 October 2015

this was a bad year for blog content
a public forum for drafts is a strange choice ive been alerted
what was it about this that so once appealed
during occupy and cecil's class this gave stability or strength
i dont have those things lately from this or anything
y writes 'i'm open suddenly to pre-you insecurities'
i'm ahead beyond and still back there
newly alarmed at my old volatility.
though now there's some anecdote behind it.
'i'm a spaz for a reason:' a manuscript.
'i didn't hurt you you only think i'm hurting
you:' a series. 'i'm diana ross:' a suite.
'it was never about you it was about my impossible
neediness clinginess sadness voracity starvation
the thing i needed - need - not you - is far away
and upon completion will yet prove not himself
i.e. not 'it' and the search will never stop,
not until the searching subject learns her breathing
exercises and accepts her present moment.
'it's fine here without you' 'it's fine without you, too;'
'the need i feel is self-propelling steam like
hot velvet roiling out of a humidifier;
you'd think considering my breaking my computer
in the spring and dashing my phone's brains out
last week i'd be more compelled to save content online
given my wires cross poorly
given idiocy
and the preternatural cloud
this is one of those exercises that never turns into a poem
even though it's line-broken and attempts to say nice things
it will evade shape and as it lacks a focused character will fail.
focus? i need content. i am grieving. i fucked up some shit
and am doubtful and hurting and fucked everybody over
i like to think behind closed doors when i'm onto myself
as a great controller of others—a farce clearly
your obsessions and your anxieties are harming you
and your work suffers
or rather you don't work when you're like this
the back of your neck hard as a salmon half-bludgeoned to death
and unfit for consumption